


Something Like Aptitude

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Gen, backstabbing, excessive manipulation, tags and warnings will update with chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Radiant Garden was a shining example of a perfect world. But something dangerous lurked in the basements of the Castle...but who or what that was, no one had ever expected. Some things can't be undone, once set in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Aptitude

Radiant Garden did nothing, if not live up to its name. It was a glorious, glistening paradise of flowers and fountains, carefully laid brick and cobblestone. The sun rose each morning, gently swaddled in muted purples and blues, and sank back beneath the horizon each night, painting the sky pink and orange. Breezes, always warm and mild, carried the crisp, clear smell of fresh water and early spring blossoms, perfuming even the most secluded areas.

The people were happy and friendly, weighed down by no concerns graver than deciding what to serve for dinner. They could walk about freely, under no fear of crime or injury, leaving doors unlocked and children out to play. There was no famine, no war, no disease or suffering—they lived, they loved, and grew to ripe old ages so to share stories and impart their wisdom upon the younger generations. Everyone knew everyone, and every chance meeting was harkened in with smiles and contented laughter.

It was an absolute utopia, their little world.

But to Xehanort, it was beginning to feel like nothing more than a particularly splendid prison cell.

His arm gave a warning thrum, having long since fallen asleep against the skin-warmed metal of the railing. From his lean, he could watch the bustle of the village square, observing the townsfolk as they went about their business and enjoyed the sunlight. He wondered, not without a fair amount of malice, just how cheerful they would all be, if they knew just who  _exactly_  they were trusting to keep them safe and warm.

He realized he was very likely scowling, and did his best to change the expression to something a bit less conspicuous. If he could see all of them, that meant  _they_  could see  _him_ , after all, and it just wouldn’t do to have people start asking questions. All the same, it was a difficult endeavor, perhaps even futile—he was quite certain anyone who approached would be bowled over by the thick, dark waves of rage radiating off of him. That wouldn’t stand, either.

Anger was not something commonly seen, within the ornately wrought gates of the Garden, and he doubted very much it was something the dear citizens would want to see on the face of their future ruler.

Pushing himself up from his lean, Xehanort took only a moment to straighten his lab coat, absently smoothing out any wrinkle or unintentional crease. He’d spent more than enough time out here, he thought; if he lingered for much longer, the others would start to become suspicious. Even if they didn’t,  _Ansem_ certainly would…but unlike the others, he would  _know_ the cause of Xehanort’s displeasure. That was not something he could risk, at this juncture. So there were appearances that had to be kept. The fresh air had helped calm him marginally, at least to the point where he could rein himself back in.

Had he remained in the confines of the Castle, clearing his head would’ve been impossible. Perhaps it had something to do with the way the air felt within the walls, or the intensity of the lights, or even the color of the décor affecting some lesser part of his brain…but Xehanort was wont to chalk it up to the  _company_. Their little group wasn’t particularly conducive to prolonged tranquility.

The Castle was where Ansem sat upon his drab excuse for a throne and decided who was allowed to do what, with what means they would be assisted, and when. Ansem was Lord and Regent of the world, but Xehanort couldn’t bring himself to put much stock into the title—it didn’t take much to rule over a vacuum. The Castle was home, too, to a very select few: those their benevolent Lord had taken under his wing, for one reason or another. They were called the Apprentices, Xehanort and his cohort, and what a sordid joke  _that_ was.

They were no more  _apprentices_  than they were  _apples_. There was nothing they were being  _trained_ for,  _prepared_  for, other than a long life in front of glowing screens and musty pages of text. They were nothing more than pawns—pretty pieces put out to decorate the front line and keep attention from off of the king. While Ansem sat and “ruled,”  _they_ were the ones carrying out the research and dirtying their hands, straining their eyes and wracking their minds to solve the problems he couldn’t trouble himself with.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he was met with a burst of shouting, neither voice unfamiliar. The entrance to the Castle, the  _real_  one, anyway—cut out from two impossibly gargantuan faux doors which loomed yards and yards up the walls, making the face of the Castle seem much grander than it actually was—stood wide open but barricaded by a large weapon wielded by a  _much_  larger body. On the landing, a gangly young man had put himself right up into Dilan’s space, gesturing furiously to a scraped-up elbow, dripping blood the color of his hair. The scene, while perhaps bizarre to an outsider, was business as usual for Xehanort, who simply adjusted his path to arc around the two of them, passing the boy’s dour friend along the way.

“Again?” he asked Aeleus, almost having to crane his head to look up at the mountain of a man in front of the doors. He glanced back over his shoulder, noting the angry tic beginning in Dilan’s temple, barely hidden by a loose swathe of dark hair. “Either they’re becoming more clever, or you two are losing your touch.”

Aeleus was having no part of his banter—he very rarely did—and simply stepped aside to let him enter. Xehanort chose to ignore the Guard’s coolness, walking into the Castle without so much as a witty remark. There would be time enough for that, later.

The Guards were a peculiar set. They were considered Apprentices, alongside him, but if asked what their responsibilities were, outside of glaring menacingly at passersby, Xehanort wasn’t entirely sure he could answer. It was the same sort of paradox posed by Ansem’s rule: there seemed to be very little need for armed soldiers in a perfect and gated world such as theirs. Outside of the two currently sniveling their complaints about being manhandled (Lea and Ïsa, if he remembered correctly, and Xehanort  _always_  remembered correctly), it wasn’t as though there were frequent intruders or troublemakers. Yet they remained, the ever-vigilant gargoyles of the Garden.

And while it might’ve seemed cruel, at first, to describe them in terms as monstrous as that, all one would need do to understand was catch a glimpse of them standing at their full height. Aeleus and Dilan positively  _towered_ over most people, making it all the easier for them to shoot warning scowls and intimidating looks to whosoever might deserve it. Were that where it ended, though—both boasted shoulders broad enough and arms thick enough that special instruction had gone into their uniforms to prevent the fabric from tearing whenever they moved. In that way, they stood in stark contrast to the other Apprentices, those made gaunt and frail from their seclusion.

But that wasn’t to say they weren’t  _sharp_. Most dismissed that idea with a scoff and a wave of the hand, writing them off as nothing more than hired muscle, only to be rendered speechless when met with a response. The only thing more dangerous than Dilan’s lances was his wit. His temper was a very close second, but even when in good spirits, he had a way of cutting people down where they stood, leaving them to gape and crumble. Aeleus was another story, entirely; where Dilan was clever, he was a  _genius_ , though one would never think it. He did not speak often, nor loudly, but his knack for problem solving and puzzles was all but astounding. But intellect was a dangerous thing when paired with valiance, and he had a way of looking at Xehanort that he did not much like. At times, it was almost as though he could see right  _through_  him. Even through the years and years they’d been working alongside one another, he had the distinct feeling that Aeleus trusted him no more than he would an agitated nest of hornets.

But still, the Guards had potential as of yet untapped. Between them, there was brute strength and sharp wit, simply waiting to be honed into something guided, concentrated,  _precise_. He shuddered to think of what they could do, if simply allowed a taste of freedom. And of course, that was something he could offer them— _would_ offer them, in time—but for now, that was a futile train of thought. The Guards were true and stalwart, and loyal to Ansem, above all else.

“Hey! Boss man!”

 _Two_  of them were, anyway.  

The weight of Braig’s arm was deceptively heavy across his shoulders, and it was only thanks to years of practice that he continued on his path without his gait being affected. He did not immediately  _look_  a Guard, Braig, not in the way the others did. Where Aeleus and Dilan were all tightly corded muscle and brawn, Braig was lean and wiry. He walked with an easy swagger, while his teammates stomped menacingly. They showed no signs of weakness, and he wore his scars and eye patch as badges of honor. Mostly, though, while they wore dark scowls and grimaces, the mark of any good bouncer, Braig  _smirked_. It was a pointed sort of grin, the kind that pulled at the deep, puckered scar running up from his jaw.

“So what’s the news?” he asked, voice much too loud for Xehanort’s liking. Over the years, the Guard had been useful enough in his own right. He held just the right amount of sway with his peers, he knew his way around the world without ever once getting turned around, and he certainly had a mean streak about him. So far, he’d proven himself a worthy vessel. That didn’t mean there weren’t downsides. Braig was capable of a great many things, but subtlety—along with depth perception—was most notably  _not_  one of them. “When do we get crackin’?”

“We  _don’t_ ,” Xehanort answered flatly, punctuating the statement with a deep breath of frustration.

With a sound that was more scoff than laugh, the corners of Braig’s mouth twitched even further. “ _Right_. Okay. We’re  _not_. I gotcha, I gotcha.” He shook his head before noting the other’s silence and frowning, pulling back to get a better look at his face. “Wait. Are you  _serious_? He said  _no_?”

They were beginning to near the labs, now, and so he halted where he stood, not about to run the risk of being overheard. “You speak  _so_  loudly.” He cast a furtive glance down the hall that led to where the other Apprentices were waiting, half expecting to find they had an audience.

“For  _real_?” To his credit, Braig at least fell into a stage whisper before continuing, though his volume still left much to be desired.

He slowly raised his eyes back to the Guard, brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. Braig had been useful over the years, there was no doubt, but he remained incredibly frustrating. The afternoon’s meeting with Ansem was quite literally the  _last_  topic Xehanort wanted to converse on, but far be it from Braig to pick up on that. “This is neither the place, nor the time…”

“Experiments are what you people  _do_! Since when does he say no to you pullin’ extra legwork around here?” He had the good sense to let it go when Xehanort shrugged his arm off from around his shoulders, folding them across his chest, instead. “Did he at least say  _why_?”

Again, he turned his gaze to the other, expression vacant, yet intangibly threatening. This time, Braig seemed to receive the message, and he averted his eye. “Obviously I’ve been going about this the wrong manner,” Xehanort said after a beat, voice low and posture stiff. “I was  _so_  hoping to avoid doing this the hard way.”

“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” as though to punctuate the statement, the Guard cocked an arrowgun, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s go do it the hard way, then.”

Xehanort held out a hand, catching Braig in the chest before he could walk any further. At the other’s look of indignation, he quirked an eyebrow, “ _How_ , pray tell, did you glean ‘riddle them all with projectiles’ from what I just said?”

“You said we were gonna do it the hard way!  _This_  is the hard way!” he insisted, brandishing one of his weapons. “Good luck saying no to one of _these_  beauts…”

“We have very different ideas of what constitutes a plan, Braig.” Xehanort released him, reaching up to rub at the dull ache blooming in the center of his forehead. “ _Exceptional_  though yours was,” he added under his breath, voice rife with tired condescension. “That is  _hardly_  what I was insinuating. What I  _meant_  to say…” he glanced back over to the doorway at the end of the hall, vague voices lingering just out of earshot, “Is that we’re going to have to try recruiting the others to our cause.”

Looking none too pleased at that thought, Braig lowered his guns once more, turning to follow the Apprentice’s line of sight. “You don’t mean…” But the silence reaffirmed his fears, “ _The freaks_?! Oh come on,  _as if_. You can’t bring  _them_  into this. They’re Ansem’s  _pets_. If you think they’ll actually go along with—”

“You have so little faith, Braig,” Xehanort sighed, throwing him one last look before starting down the hall to the laboratory. “Besides,” he added, over his shoulder, “I only need to convince  _one_.”

“If you say so,” he heard Braig mutter in his wake, no doubt disappointed in being shot down.

And really,  _that_  was the problem with the Guards—every last one of them. They struck first, asked questions later, and deferred judgment to anyone wearing a white coat. How dangerous that was. The others, though…the ones in the labs…well, they operated quite differently. They had no blunted weapons to hide behind, save those coiled tight behind their eyes.

As he made his way down the hallway, the voices slowly became more and more distinct. “The results seem promising, thus far…” came Even’s voice, shrill and grating, taut and high with warped excitement. “That’s reassuring to hear,” Ansem answered, sending a new spike of fury shooting through Xehanort’s gut. He had hoped to buy himself a bit more time before having to deal with the wise man again, but it did not seem he would be lucky enough to get that wish.

With practiced ease, he shifted his expression into something more lighthearted, almost placid, and crossed over the threshold, absently adjusting his cravat as he did so. “What are we discussing, then?” he asked offhandedly, smoothing out his lapels as he joined the two around the desk.

It was almost in tandem, that Even and Ansem lifted their heads to regard him, expressions unreadable. “ _We_?” Even asked with a flat sort of indignation, eyebrows raised so high, they were in distinct danger of disappearing into his hairline. “So you’ve finally decided to join us, hmm?”

“We’ve already begun going over the most recent findings,” Ansem interjected, Even silencing immediately, though his scowl only deepened. “We  _did_  wait quite a while for you…”

“I’m sure he has a perfectly good excuse for keeping us waiting.” The third voice, unexpected, was enough to elicit an involuntary shiver of surprise from Xehanort, though he didn’t so much as turn around. It never failed to amaze him, how very easily Ienzo blended into the periphery, able to lie in wait until such a time as he decided to reveal himself. “Was there no one available to throw flower petals at your feet, as you made your way back?”

“You know I require a full fanfare, wherever I go,” Xehanort answered, barely glancing over his shoulder, spotting the youngest Apprentice, seated none too far away from them. “Apologies, I  _was_  held up,” he heaved a weary sigh, attempting to at least give the illusion of tired frustration, “The Guards were dealing with those boys again, you know the ones.”

By then, he’d already turned back to Even and Ansem, but the sneer was positively  _audible_  in Ienzo’s voice, “The  _mutts_.”

“I’m rather certain they have  _names_ , Ienzo,” chided Ansem, though he seemed resigned to remain unheeded.

"They had their hands full with those little urchins, again? Honestly, why are they so intent on sneaking in here?" Even shook his head, returning to the notes he’d been scribbling down. "It’s quickly becoming a bad joke."

Ansem chuckled warmly, obviously unperturbed by the boys’ trespasses. “Youthful curiosity, I’m sure. Nothing quite satisfies the urge for adventure like a castle—much less one they aren’t allowed in. Perhaps we should allow them to look about the premises? To dispel the mystique, you understand.” He turned, barely glancing over his shoulder. “Maybe you’d like to show them around, Ienzo? They  _are_  right about your age, if I’m not mistaken?”

"Ah, yes, set up a play date straightaway," Ienzo said, entirely devoid of tone. He peered up from his monstrous book for only a moment, looking off into the distance thoughtfully. "Oh, but whatever shall we fill our time with, after our tour of the grounds? I find myself at quite a loss. Such a  _shame_ vivisection has fallen so  _terribly_  out of style.” With that, he touched his tongue to a fingertip, turning a yellowed page.

"Lord Ansem,” interjected Even, “I abhor to think of what those miscreants might do to the estate. Best to allow Aeleus and the other brutes to continue throwing them out. We should  _hardly_  reward their insolence, don’t you agree?”

Heaving a patient sigh, Ansem shook his head in reproach. “As I will  _continue_ to remind you both, your station here makes you no worse, and no better, than anyone else in Radiant Garden. An Apprentice is no different than an—what did you call them, again, Even?—urchin. Remember that, now.” Ansem’s focus remained on the files in front of him, making him impervious to the disbelieving stares he was suddenly receiving…but that didn’t mean Xehanort wasn’t witness to them.

The two would never admit as much, even under threat of death, but it was moments such as these where it became painfully obvious as to whom the responsibility of raising the boy had fallen. Even and Ienzo looked on with twin expressions of quiet distaste, before returning their attention to their readings. Their preoccupation with propriety and hierarchy was almost amusing, at times.

They were at once polar opposites and the same person. Whether that was the fault of nature or nurture, however, any guess was as good as the next. Ienzo had been brought into the care of the Apprentices not long before Xehanort had, years and years ago, now; a small and sad orphan of a child, with eyes too large for his face and a mind too large for his body. He had been the apple of Ansem’s eye for quite some time before the rigors of keeping a perfect world in line became too much, and he was left, instead, in the care of the temperamental scientist. Even’s influence had done wonders for his learning curve, but had only served to further sever the boy’s connection to humanity. They were the living embodiment of science, of logic, and they were not to be tested, nor tried, nor trusted.

But they could still prove useful.

“I take it the findings are significant, then?” he asked, reinserting himself into the conversation. And then, to plant the first seeds, “As though there would be any question.”

As though a switch had been flipped, Even became exponentially more personable, at that, and launched himself once more into the patterns the data were showing. His methods were unquestionable, of course, and his sample size was considerable, so really, it was only to be expected…

Ienzo’s eyes were still on the back of his neck, though, and he could feel them boring twin holes straight through him. As a child, he’d been a frightening little specter, hiding and listening from all the crevices too small for anyone else; as an adult, he was something else, entirely. Normally, Xehanort didn’t mind his presence, given they were the youngest of the Castle-dwellers and, debatably, the most gifted. But today, he found himself overly concerned with the silent psychoanalysis that was doubtlessly being carried out behind that sheaf of prematurely grey hair. If  _anyone_  was going to catch scent of his true intentions, it would be Ienzo.

And that was why the youngest Apprentice stood as his very last resort.

For a while, he simply bid himself to smile and nod, listening to Even’s ravings patiently, occasionally making a sound of interest or posing some unimportant question to make it seem as though he were fully enthused. It was difficult, as the older man had a tendency to talk in statistics and figures and theory, in such a way that it sometimes seemed as though he had simply ceased speaking English.

He needed to appear earnestly interested; he needed to seem cool and collected. If nothing else, he needed Ansem to believe that their earlier altercation had been forgotten and forgiven. The intellectual set was always prone to excessive paranoia and suspicion, and their dear, benevolent Lord was no exception. More than that, though, Xehanort needed Even’s favor.

“I wonder,” he began, flipping through a clipped stack of papers, “Whether we could discuss this point here,” he gestured ambiguously, “At greater length?”

“I would need my materials—” Even started, but Xehanort cut him off with a wave.

“No matter, we can walk and talk, then.” If he was to present Even his proposal, it would have to be out of earshot of the others. Thankfully, there was no resistance from the scientist, and Even was three strides ahead of him before he’d even noticed.

“Yes, perhaps you can help better our dear compatriot’s mood.” Ienzo stood from where he’d been sitting, slowly slinking over to where they had all been gathered, hands knotted behind his back. “You  _do_  seem to be  _particularly_ glum, today, Xehanort,” he said, pronouncing each syllable carefully, as though savoring the sounds. “I wonder why  _that_  could be.” And he  _did_ wonder, Xehanort knew, and that was dangerous.

Ienzo wielded his words like Even wielded his scalpel—carefully, expertly, and with intent to dissect. Perhaps that was the greatest difference between the two: Even found there to be great sport in slicing open bodies and brains to study what they were hiding inside, but Ienzo preferred luring his victims into handing over every secret they’d ever held with nothing sharper than his tongue. In both methods, he knew they were masters of their craft.

Xehanort had seen them tear through subjects in more ways than one.

In that way, they were at once his best chance, and worst obstacle. They held influence and sway over Ansem in ways he, unfortunately, did not, and their dedication to his cause would be paramount to its success. But much like the Guards, their loyalties lied with their Lord. He had the strangest inkling, though, that the allegiance of a lab rat would not cost as much as that of a guard dog.

Until they were well out of view of Ansem and Ienzo, Xehanort allowed Even to continue rambling about controls and counterbalances, slowly nodding as though he were listening. But once the noise around them tapered to nothing more than their footfalls through the hollow passage, he exhaled a breath. “If I were to suggest something of a collaboration…would you be at all interested?” He paused, waiting to see whether or not Even would simply shrug him off, watching the blond carefully from the corner of his eye. “I find myself in need of,” a corner of his mouth tightened, “Some assistance.”

“A  _collaboration_?” Even asked, treating the word like he might a poisonous insect. “With  _you_? Since when do  _you_  have any need of partnership?”

Ah, and there it was—the first vestige of worry. Self-serving, no doubt, as Even cared little for the wrongdoings of others, and much more so for his own accolades. “We live in a world of light, wouldn’t you agree?” The question had the desired effect of serving to perplex Even, and Xehanort had to actively try and contain his smirk. “And even so, the shadows linger, as if waiting for us. Waiting for an opportunity to take shape.”

“Still hung up on that, are you?” The scoff was not wholly unexpected, but he cringed inwardly at the scorn in Even’s voice, all the same. “We’ve given up on that line of research, you know that. Lord Ansem doesn’t want us involving ourselves any further in matters of the heart.” Still…and perhaps it was only wishful thinking…there was the faintest hint of displeasure in his tone. Something almost like disappointment.

That meant there was still a chance.

“But didn’t you find it so very… _fascinating_?” Xehanort kept his pace steady, his voice even, and his eyes forward. “Such a  _shame_ , that he stopped, just when we were beginning to uncover all of its secrets.”

Even had gone quiet—a rarity—and that was when he knew, really  _knew_ , that the Apprentice was already safely in his corner of the ring. “It’s not the first project I’ve had to scrap, you know. Part of science is knowing when to quit. Maybe if you had a bit more  _experience_ , you would know that.”

“May I be blunt with you?”

Silence again. They were standing on the precipice, now, and both seemed fully aware of it. “Your…’collaboration,’ as it were, involves digging up Lord Ansem’s old research, is that what I’m to gather?”

“It does,” he agreed, grasping his hands behind his back in a cold, clinical manner. “I don’t think you understand how much your expertise is needed, Even.”

“I think I have a fairly good idea, actually.” But Even  _hardly_  sounded averse to the thought. “I was the only one here to work alongside him, during that time, after all.”

“You were,” Xehanort agreed once more. “And everyone in the Garden knows how high in his esteem Ansem holds you. Obtaining his old data would be absolutely no issue for you, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure.” Even turned, and while Xehanort did not meet his gaze, he could only imagine the look on his face. It was beginning to seem almost  _painfully_ easy, winning him over. All it took was a good, strong stroke to his ego, and Even was positively putty in his hand. “Though I can’t imagine why you would need  _me_  for that. Perhaps you haven’t noticed,  _Xehanort_ ,” and oh, there was absolutely a bite of bitterness in his voice, now, “But you’ve become something of a teacher’s pet, of late. I would have to assume Ansem would give you whatever it was you asked him for.”

“Yes. Well. He didn’t.”

Even furrowed his brow at the revelation, but said nothing. Would wonders never cease?

“That’s why I’m asking you.” This time, he stopped his stride, turning to better face the Apprentice. “Because his respect for you far outweighs his respect for me, and because there’s no one else in this establishment with whom I feel I can entrust this information.” A beat, “Think of all the good we could do, Even. Understanding the darkness that lurks within the heart…could there  _be_  any discovery more enormous, more influential than that?”

He was left to wonder, for a terrible moment, if he had lost Even somewhere along the way, if he hadn’t convinced him as thoroughly as he had thought. It  _had_ , to be completely fair, not taken very much time at all. If Even denied him now, the damage would be minimal. He knew only the smallest piece of what Xehanort had hoped to do, and nothing that Ansem hadn’t already heard. Better now than further down the line, when the danger of being discovered would be less an inconvenience and more a death warrant.

“What,  _exactly_ , are you proposing?”

That, he realized with a surge of relief, was  _not_  rejection. “We would need his old data and methods, of course,” Xehanort said, diving right on in without worry of pretense. “But more than that, we would need another lab.”

“ _Another lab_? Why wouldn’t we just use the facilities we’re already in possession of?” At that, he actually seemed affronted, bright eyes wide and unconvinced. “Our lab is perfectly fine.”

Even didn’t  _need_  to know why. Not now, anyway. He would come to understand the necessity, soon enough. The pocket of darkness was going untapped, as of yet, but if they could carry their studies out down below the Castle, deep in the grasp of the shadows and the unknown, who was to say what would happen? What  _could_  happen? “All in good time,” he said, instead, opting to handle the subject as delicately as possible, until the right time made itself apparent. And while the look on Even’s face was more nonplussed than anything else, he was far too transparent to hide his intrigue. “For now, all I require of you is an answer. So. Are you interested in my offer?” He held a hand out to him, amicably, “Or are you not?”

The other Apprentice carefully contemplated the hand in front of him, eyes flitting from it to Xehanort, and back again. He could almost see the cogs in Even’s head turning, madly trying to weigh the pros and cons of going against their Lord’s wishes, of reopening an old wound, of taking that first terrifying leap into the unknown. Of course, there were few things more tempting to Even than the promise of being the first to discover and to study.

So when he firmly took his hand in his, Xehanort couldn’t claim to be  _too_ surprised.


End file.
